Tony had been practically vibrating with anticipation. Following Gemini's lead, he pressed himself against the broom and angled skyward.
"YEEEEEHAW!" His triumphant whoop echoed across Malibu as he rocketed into the star-studded darkness. The magical protections couldn't completely shield him from the rush of wind—it whipped through his hair and stung his cheeks with exhilarating intensity. If Tony had to compare it, the Iron Man suit was like piloting a luxury sedan while the broomstick was pure motorcycle—raw, immediate, gloriously unfiltered.
They soared through the night sky for what felt like hours, Tony executing increasingly ambitious maneuvers as his confidence grew. When Gemini finally called for a landing, he descended with visible reluctance.
"Come on!" she laughed, watching him circle the rooftop one more time. "We still have business to discuss!"
Tony touched down with significantly less grace than he'd achieved in flight, stumbling as his legs remembered the concept of solid ground. After so long airborne, his muscles had turned to jelly—he found himself walking with an undignified bow-legged gait that would have been hilarious if it weren't happening to him.
"So," Gemini said, efficiently packing away her Firebolt, "verdict on the Quidditch match? Are you interested?"
Tony paused in his attempts to walk normally. "Basic question—what exactly is Quidditch? I'm assuming it involves more than just flying around looking magnificent."
"Aerial ball sport," Gemini explained with growing enthusiasm. "Seven players per team, three different types of balls, absolutely no rules against creative violence. Think rugby meets aerial combat—infinitely more exciting than any Formula One race you've ever seen."
Tony's eyes lit with the gleam of someone discovering a new obsession. "Now you have my attention."
"Plus," Gemini continued, "international matches draw vendors from across the magical world. Unique artifacts, experimental potions, technologies you've never imagined. It's like Comic-Con for wizards, except everything actually works."
Tony was already mentally rearranging his schedule. "I'm in. How long are we talking? I'll need to coordinate with Pepper—disappearing without notice tends to trigger SHIELD investigations."
Gemini considered the logistics. "Full experience? Two weeks minimum. But we could manage a week if necessary."
Tony winced. A week he could sell as an extended research retreat. Two weeks would require explanations he wasn't prepared to give.
"One week," he decided. "Pepper can handle Stark Industries for seven days without declaring me legally dead."
Gemini nodded approvingly. "Perfect. I'll handle the arrangements." She glanced at her watch—well past midnight. "I should check on ticket availability before they're all claimed by Ministry officials and their extended families."
As she prepared to leave, Tony remembered the stack of invitations cluttering his workshop. "Before you go—" He retrieved several elegant cards from his jacket. "Some MIT alumnus is hosting a technology exposition. Supposed to be cutting-edge stuff, though I doubt it'll compare to flying broomsticks."
Gemini accepted the invitations with polite interest, tucking them into her bag alongside the Portkey box. "I'll consider it. Thanks."
She departed through the Floo network, leaving Tony alone with his new broomstick and a head full of questions about magical sports regulations.
Gemini spent the following days in productive isolation, buried in advanced texts and theoretical frameworks. Her promise to return for NEWTs meant maintaining academic standards—a report card full of failing marks would be professionally embarrassing and personally devastating.
She was deep in Advanced Transfiguration Theory when Coby appeared with the day's correspondence.
"Letter from Quality Quidditch Supplies, Miss Gemini," the house-elf announced, presenting an envelope sealed with official wax.
Gemini opened it with growing satisfaction. The shop clerk had secured both VIP box seats and a private viewing suite, but needed clarification on her preferences given the significant price difference.
Relief flooded through her—no need to call in favors from the British Ministry or rely on Black family connections. She'd been cooped up for days anyway; a trip to Diagon Alley would provide welcome distraction.
The Quality Quidditch Supplies clerk had been monitoring the street with increasing anxiety. His letter to Miss Black had gone unanswered for three days—either she was uninterested or planning her response with characteristic Black family precision.
When Gemini emerged from The Copper Oak, his relief was palpable. He abandoned his window-cleaning duties, quickly checked his reflection, and approached with professional enthusiasm.
"Miss Black! Perfect timing. I trust you received my correspondence about the available seating options?"
Gemini followed him into the shop's VIP consultation room—a necessity in magical commerce, where certain customers expected privacy and others demanded it.
"Show me what you've secured," she said, settling into the offered chair.
The clerk produced two distinctly different tickets. The first bore red silk backing with gold thread embroidery—clearly expensive and undeniably official. The second gleamed with silver and gold inlay work that seemed to shift in the lamplight.
"The red tickets provide access to the VIP section," he explained, conjuring a detailed mist-model of the stadium. "Same level as the commentary box, excellent acoustics for following play-by-play analysis. However, you'd be sharing space with various Ministry officials, international dignitaries, and their... extensive entourages. The available seats are somewhat toward the rear."
He gestured, and tiny lights appeared in the misty stadium model, indicating the specific locations.
"The private box," he continued, the mist reshaping itself, "accommodates fifteen guests in complete comfort. Dedicated kitchen facilities, private rest areas if the match extends beyond standard duration, and..." The model highlighted a position directly opposite the commentary box. "Unobstructed viewing from the optimal angle. You'll miss some commentary details, but the visual experience is unparalleled."
Gemini studied the positioning with tactical precision. Privacy versus social networking. Comfort versus political connections. The choice was obvious.
"Private box," she decided. "We'll arrive two days early for the full experience. What are the camping arrangements?"
The clerk's commission calculations were practically visible. "Private box holders receive designated premium camping areas. Simply present your credentials upon arrival. Shall I arrange tent accommodations as well?"
Gemini thought of the silk pavilion currently stored in her expanded trunk—the same one that had served as field headquarters during Tony's rescue. Official provisions were notoriously unreliable.
"I'll handle my own accommodations," she said diplomatically.
The clerk completed the transaction with practiced efficiency, then presented an exquisite blue and white porcelain vase that seemed to glow with contained magic.
"Your Portkey," he announced with obvious pride. "Crafted by Central Land Daoist Sect artisans—far superior to the crude implements typically employed for international transport. Activation is scheduled for February 3rd at precisely 10:15:23 AM. The match begins February 5th. All details are included in the documentation."
Gemini accepted the Portkey with genuine appreciation. The Chinese magical community understood style—their Portkeys were works of art rather than disguised garbage. British magical transport relied on old boots and broken kettles, prioritizing Muggle concealment over aesthetic dignity.
"Excellent work," she complimented, earning a pleased flush from the clerk.
Leaving the shop, Gemini felt the familiar satisfaction of a plan coming together. Tony would experience magical sport at its finest, she'd enjoy a week away from academic pressures, and they'd both return with stories that would sound like fiction to anyone else.
As she tucked the Portkey box into her bag, her fingers encountered the technology exposition invitations Tony had provided. The date was today—and suddenly, Gemini realized she'd been in New York for months without visiting one of her greatest inspirations.
Dr. Stephen Strange was scheduled to speak at this very exposition.
Decision made, Gemini exited through The Copper Oak's Muggle entrance, grateful she'd chosen contemporary clothing over traditional robes. Time to see what Muggle science had achieved while she'd been mastering magic.
The irony wasn't lost on her—a witch attending a technology conference to hear a surgeon who would one day become Earth's Sorcerer Supreme. If only he knew what his future held.
Gemini smiled and hailed a taxi, already anticipating the evening ahead.
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